


People Like Us

by Arleneisme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Caring Sam, Caring Sam Winchester, Child Death, Dean is a Good Friend, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Loving Sam, Male-Female Friendship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Past Character Death, Patient Sam, Porn With Plot, READER HAS A DOG, Rating May Change, Reader is widowed, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Romance, Sad Reader, Silly Dean, Slow Burn, Smut, Some Humor, Supportive Sam, Widowed, farm life, grieving reader, tragic past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 09:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arleneisme/pseuds/Arleneisme
Summary: Death, why did it have to be death? Why couldn’t I have been taken instead?While admiring the rise and fall of the jagged Montana mountain tops your fingertips unconsciously trace the circle of your late husband’s ring. This had always been his dream, living the farm life, breathing the fresh air, raising a family with enough room to roam these were all things that he wanted to do with you.Instead, you were doing this alone, choosing to live in isolation and refusing to let anyone in ever again. Your loss left a gaping hole in your heart which you felt could never be repaired; you would never love again, you were broken, no one wanted you. Well, until you saved Sam Winchesters life.





	People Like Us

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for showing interest in this new story I am starting, I have had this idea for awhile and I am thrilled to share it with all of you! It is pretty sad/angsty in the beginning but I assure you it gets better, hang in there! I am also stoked to write a romantic relationship between reader and Sam (sometimes I feel like Sam doesn't get enough love, eh?)
> 
> Suggestions, comments, kudos, love, support (all that jazz) is greatly appreciated! Hearing from you all motivates me to write and share with everyone. Keep on keepin' on and lets see where this story takes us? :) 
> 
> A/N: There is mention of child death and spousal death in this story, nothing graphic but I wanted to put it out there just in case.

* * *

_‘Even in the blackest of nights you can still see the stars’_ your grandfather would say meekly as he aided you in bandaging your scraped knee or as he held you while you wept over your first break up. A mantra that was spoken so frequently, and often to the point of irritation, that it could have been put on your family crest.

The day you received the call from your mom informing you that during the night your grandfather had passed peacefully, you pinned his famous words to your heart. Coveting that forever more you would live by his belief, always striving to look on the bright side. ‘Dying stars shine the brightest’ you would remind yourself, ‘find beauty in the bad times.’

Not anymore though, there were no more starlit nights that blanketed across your figurative sky. The darkest times were to the point so black and unforgiving that even stars of optimism couldn’t poke through. No matter what way you tried to view it, there was no constructive reason to the cards you were just dealt. The ultimate insult, the type of story you see on the news where you woefully think, ‘That poor sap, I’m so glad that’s not me...’

_Death, why did it have to be death? Why couldn’t you have been taken instead?_

* * *

James was prepared, he loved to make lists, be organized and plan for the future. It was one of your favorite things about him, he was the yin to your yang, always reeling you back in when you needed grounding. Never in your life could you have envisioned marrying a more perfect man.

Being the planner that he was, James had his funeral all mapped out, you always found the idea of making arrangements for your funeral so far in advance somewhat disturbing. Pondering all the conversations he had with you about planning for the future you never dreamed that your future together would be cut short. Tragically shattering all your hopes as your worst fears became bad dreams.

Those dreams rapidly mutated into your worst nightmares when you had to plan the funeral of your two-year-old son. Nothing could have prepared you for the pained screaming of your wounded motherly soul as you were forced to choose child-sized coffins. No parent should have to bury their own child; furthermore, no human being should have to sit through the funeral procession of both their husband and only child. It should be considered a sin.

The days following their tragic deaths shuffled by, with vision clouded with tears you navigated through whatever obstacle or choice you had to make. People gave their condolences, regretfully murmuring how sorrowful and tragic the whole situation was. It was a miracle that you didn't swing a right hook into a random person’s jaw who explained, “...at least your loved ones are in a better place...” Whose stupid idea was it anyway to allow that phrase to be considered customary to comfort someone who was grieving.

Eventually, it all became too much, trying to drift through life, trapped and suffocating in the body of your former self. It was a routine that you desperately wanted to be free from; go to work and avoid the pity filled states of your peers, come home to an empty house that stood as a constant reminder of all that you lost. A place that was once filled with love, tenderness, and laughter now sat hollow, darkness permeating every inch echoing the sound of James’ voice as he rocked your baby boy to sleep at night.

This home that you had built together became your tomb, every door closed tightly, shut off and unwelcoming. Some rooms were left untouched due to the unbearable idea of disturbing the last living moments of their existence. Family and friends tried to console you by encouraging you to move into those unoccupied spaces. Suggesting you put the last shreds of evidence of your husband and son in boxes and work on healing. How could you move on with your life when everything that was your world was ripped away?

Life without them seemed meaningless, you weren’t living; there was no coping, no adjusting as long as you lived in the same space which had taken on a shape that was foreign to you. Every night you cried yourself into a restless sleep, clutching James’ pillow to your shaking, sobbing form, the weight of his wedding band clamped so tightly in your palm it left a circular mark.

It was like you were occupying your worst nightmare and no matter how hard you tried to wake up you were bound to the tragedy that you were now forced to carry. The pain was never going to go away, you knew that, but what you did know was that the life you once inhabited was no longer your own. As a result, the disconnection from those around you fostered an idea that compelled you to sell your home along with everything you owned.

Cleaning out your life savings you purchased a small dilapidated ranch in Montana, deciding to distance yourself from everyone and live in isolation. Loneliness seemed to be a more reasonable replacement than attempting to fit the mold that society had some unreasonable expectation that you fill.

When driving to Montana, your car was virtually empty apart from some of your clothes and a medium sized cardboard box containing sentimental items. Packing that box was one of the hardest things you ever had to do, going through the motions of cleaning out the house it was like you were forced to bury your dead loved ones all over again.

Sitting reluctantly in the rooms that you had closed off and wrapping each item carefully in old newspaper and arranging them in the base of the box. This action forced you to revive every memory that each item was attached to. There were, of course, the usual personal mementos: photo albums, home movies, important documents that occupied the majority of the space.

Then there were the few items that you reverently placed inside, trinkets that to others would seem so trivial and seemingly insignificant, but to you, they meant the world. A baby blanket that you painstakingly hand knit, mass amounts of frustration in every stitch even to the point of tears. The memories clear as day of you tossing the needles across the room and erupting into a fit of hormonal tears only for James to retrieve your work, returning it to your hands and lovingly encouraging you to try again

Nestled in the fuzzy blue material of the knit blanket were your son’s hospital bands from when he was born, a reminder of the day your life changed forever. A real piece of that pivotal instance when you held your breath until the room was filled with a gasp followed by a watery cry. That precious moment they placed him in your arms and you couldn’t comprehend how empty your arms felt before this baby. Blinking up at you with a confused expression, you kissed his head and named him Luke.

Wispy strawberry blonde baby curls from Luke’s first haircut, that memory always made you laugh even when you wept, his shocked expression as James used the clippers for the first time. Eventually, his shock turned into fits of giggles as the clippers tickled the back of his head and neck. Snatching up those downy hairs and placing them in an envelope to cherish them forever, reflecting on that moment you are so glad you did.

On top rested your husband’s favorite button up that still smelt faintly of his cologne, short love notes that he had written you on various scraps of paper, ad your grandfather's Bible. Pressed between its worn pages the dried poppy which James’ had awkwardly handed you on your first date that sat nestled against the list.

Fiddling with the wedding band that hung on a thin gold chain around your neck you glance in the review mirror, eyes trailing along the straight edges of the box that contained everything that was left of your previous life. Sitting solitarily in the center of the backseat, seemingly innocent but in reality, mocking you with its very presence. In the end, this is what it all came down to? Your whole life, all your love, every scrap of your existence fitting into a single box?

Releasing the gold band, you wrap your hands around the top of the steering wheel tightening your grip to the point your knuckles begin to turn white. Breathing in deeply you fight back the tears walking yourself through why you made this choice. A broken-down ranch, something to keep you busy, fresh air, new beginnings. This was good, this is what you wanted...right?

Panic began to set in, wrapping around your throat and clamping down tightly. Close your eyes, count to ten, breath and repeat, remember all the techniques the therapists taught you. Mantras, sayings, quotes printed on cheap printer paper found by rifling through a file cabinet and placed in your hands, ‘Go home and pin these where you can see.’

Home you went, diligently following the instructions of your therapist by taping up that flimsy piece of paper. Presented proudly, as if it were some magical token that could compel the lingering ghoul of grief to flee and never return. Allowing you room to breathe, enough space to spread out and regain control.

_‘I choose to see this situation as an opportunity for growth...’_ whoever wrote this crap never had to bury the love of their life along with their only child.

_‘I am strong, I am capable, I can adapt...’_ No, you were none of those things, you didn’t want to suffer through this.

_‘Love will heal my wounds...’_ How can love heal your wounds if your universe, everything you ever loved, was snatched away from you?

Repeat, breathe, count down from ten and open your eyes. Peering through your damp lashes you gaze, probably for the hundredth time, at the disheveled structure that was now called home. It wasn’t much to look at right now but the instant you saw the listing you knew deep in your heart that it had potential.

Unhurriedly, you unbuckle your seatbelt using the time to collect your thoughts and regain a sense of calm before unloading the car of what little you have. Stepping out of your vehicle to retrieve what few items you have from the back, pausing briefly you take in the scene around you.

While admiring the rise and fall of the jagged Montana mountain tops your fingertips unconsciously trace the circle of James’ ring. This had always been his dream, living the farm life, breathing the fresh air, raising a family with enough room to roam these were all things that he wanted to do with you.

Bringing the ring to your lips you kiss it humbly, murmuring, "I wish we could be doing this together James..." Wiping a stray tear that slid down your cheek with the back of your hand you sniffle quietly before opening back door. Dragging the box towards you and hefting it into your arms, closing the door with your foot you amble towards your future.

B _reathe, count to ten and repeat...This was good, this was needed..._

* * *

Warmth radiated from the mug that was clasped in your chilled and aching hands, the aroma of your morning coffee rose in steaming billows that pleasingly tickled your nose. Sipping the liquid slowly you hummed in contentment, just the way you liked it, rich and dark, pure and straightforward, not muddled with various sweeteners or creams.

After enduring a hectic night, you always found that savoring a strong morning coffee really hit the spot; a sudden storm that the forecast didn’t predict rolled in sending the farm animals into a panic. Consequently, being caught off guard left you at a disadvantage, forcing you to stay up all night attempting to keep everything running smoothly.

From where you stood gazing out the kitchen window the morning appeared serene, upholding the claim that ‘there is always calm after the storm.’ A pink glow emitted across the glistening still water of the lake, idle waves grazed the shore intermingled with hazy fog which curled around the posts of your small private dock.

Suddenly feeling an overwhelming longing to breathe the fresh air of daybreak you push away from where you were propped against the counter. Wandering to the French doors that lead out onto your back deck you slip on your boots and canvas jacket. Producing a loud whistle, you call out, "Espen! Come here, boy!"

Knowing full well what is coming next you brace for impact, setting down your mug out of harm’s way. The sound of thundering paws hurtles towards you at a furious pace, bounding into the kitchen your hulking black Newfoundland Espen skids across the tile. Upon noticing you standing by the back door, he loses all sense of coordination in the throes of his excitement.

Quickening his stride, he hurtles all 150 pounds of himself into your legs wriggling animatedly his tail wagging a hundred miles an hour. The Newfoundland is supposed to be a calm and docile breed, which Espen was the majority of the time. Well, until he was faced with the prospect of possibly getting to dash out and play in the lake, which would launch him into a bout of black fluffy energy.

Two years ago, not long after you began the venture of fixing up the ranch, you came to the realization that you needed companionship. When you learned that one of your neighbors down the road bred dogs and their female just had a litter it seemed like fate. Upon meeting Espen's mom and dad, you immediately fell in love with the breed; ever since the day you brought him home he has brought insurmountable joy into your dark world.

Retrieving your coffee, you give him a vigorous scratch behind the ears with your free hand, "Oh Espen, you goof. Ready to go outside boy?" you grin as you unlock the back door opening it and allowing Espen to gallop past. Trailing after him you close the door firmly, watching as your furry friend loped down the battered wood steps to the lake’s shoreline.

Strolling across the deck you place your elbows on the railing, sipping your coffee regarding the beauty that Montana had to offer in all its grandeur. Treasuring the quiet calm before you begin another busy day you shut your eyes speaking aloud like you did every morning. Maybe you were trying to motivate yourself, but if you were honest, there was a portion of you that James was up there listening.

_“Help me today that I might have the strength to move forward, allow good things to happen and joy to enter my life.”_

The sound of Espen’s unexpected and worried barking proceeded by a splash wrenches you from your meditative state. Springing into action you race down to the dock, your heart pounds violently heightening the panic of whatever is happening. Espen had never acted in this manner before which generated an onslaught of emotions which you hoped to never suffer again.

As soon as the lake’s edge came into view, you observe Espen's head bobbing up and down in the choppy water paddling with solid strokes in the direction of the rocky shore. The familiar and unwanted feeling of dread emerges from the pit of your stomach when you identify what he is dragging behind him... _a man._


End file.
